Starrbelow

by Christianna Brand

  ‘I have been travelling,’ said Weyburn briefly.

  ‘Oh, aye, travelling, we know all about that! Between the dressing-room of Madame Chose at the Paris Opera House and her dressing-room at home?—except for similar excursions at La Scala in Milan, and was there not also some little soprano in Lisbon, or was it Seville?…’

  ‘I have been in both Spain and Portugal, certainly,’ he said, ‘but your ladyship exaggerates my devotion to music.’

  ‘Well, well, there was news of an interest in Terpischore also.’ She rapped him archly over the knuckles with her closed fan and he removed his hand from the painted door and gathered up the reins on the arched neck of his splendid chestnut. ‘Come now, my lord, not so hasty! You did not suppose the world ignorant of the alleviations of your banishment?’

  The ladies in the carriage exchanged naughty glances, the young men lounging about them nudged one another, concealing their grins behind their huge fur muffs. Lord Weyburn said sharply, ‘Banishment, madame?’

  ‘England has hardly been—comfortable—to you these past ten years.’

  ‘England is never comfortable to a man who has killed another in a duel.’

  ‘Oh, aye, that business! But a year or two would have served for that, even considering the fuss from Hanover. I spoke of a voluntary banishment. Why have you come back to England now?’

  ‘I have been back several times, as it happens—without your ladyship’s permission.’

  ‘Have you now? I’d no idea of it,’ said the Duchess, blandly. She thought it over. ‘To consult with your lawyers, I dare say; even a small estate like yours can’t be left to look after itself. And to see your—family?’ She might ignore the shaft, but it had not passed unobserved, and now she paid it back in good measure. She said casually, ‘No doubt you are aware that your lady is at present in Town?’

  He stood very still for a moment, collecting himself, his handsome head steady, his pale, handsome features controlled to give no sign of the tiny cold shock the news had given him. But his tongue would not be guarded; he said sharply: ‘Lady Weyburn is at Starrbelow. My lawyers—’

  ‘She came up yesterday with the Countess of Frome. You remember the Countess?—The Lily of Lillane they used to call her. Oh, but of course, she is your cousin, is she not? And was once your particular—friend?’ He bowed in silence. ‘Curious that she should nowadays be Lady Weyburn’s particular friend.’

  ‘Anyone is fortunate,’ he said, coldly, ‘who has such a friend.’

  ‘And Lady Weyburn more than most.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ he said, sharply.

  ‘Why, that the Countess is—if a trifle dull—respectable; and Lady Weyburn therefore fortunate in her friendship.’

  His face was very pale, his knuckles whitened, gathering the reins anew on his horse’s neck. ‘Your Grace has not lost sight of the fact that she is speaking of my wife?’

  Her Grace tossed her plumed head, winking round upon the small, shrinking group of her sycophants. ‘Why, even as to that, my lord—can you be sure?’

  ‘I do not understand you, madame.’

  ‘It is perfectly clear. I say, simply—can you be sure that she is truly Lady Weyburn?’

  ‘I can be sure at least that I married her: and having done so, if your Grace will pardon me, prefer not to discuss the matter.’

  ‘Hoity toity!’ said the Duchess, laughing. She eyed him shrewdly. ‘It would never astonish me, my dear Weyburn, to learn you were a little in love with her yourself.’ He had thrust his foot into the stirrup, thrown his leg over the saddle and was starting away when she shrieked out after him, ‘Have a care, my lord, be not too soft or you’ll find yourself saddled with a wife after all, and her bastard boy as your heir!’

  All about them the sky was softly blue above the spare trees, the crocuses thrust coloured spears through the green satin of young grass: the macaronis in their silks and velvets lost colour a little behind ringed white hands, at her ladyship’s daring, the attendant women in the ducal carriage exchanged scared glances; were, perhaps, a little ashamed. And above the chuff-chuff of horses’ hooves upon the soft ground, the rattle and jingle of harness, the cries of a coachman reining in his beasts to a peremptory order, a voice called, cool and clear: ‘Good day, your Grace. Were you speaking of me? And of my son?’

  His first thought was that she was more beautiful, by far, than he had ever remembered her—and God knows, he had remembered her with every waking hour and rebelled at the memory and, in the arms of this woman or that, had crushed the memory out of mind. Slender and upright, she leaned forward a little, her body, straight as an arrow, counterpoised against the lovely curve of the open carriage, emblazoned and gilded, in which she sat. Her hair was built, à la mode, into a high, moulded coiffure of her own, unpowdered gold, her skin was ivory against the clear, bold colour of her cloak and dress; as always the only touch of blue about her was in the hidden brilliance of her eyes. Against her warm glow, the dazzling white and china-blue of the Countess of Frome, sitting in the carriage at her side, was like ice against fire; but now as ever, ice upon fire, the small, secret, scornful, sorrowful smile flew its flag of defiance to himself and all the world: guarding against all comers, cruel or kind, the once vulnerable heart.…

  The Duchess swung round in a flutter of ribbons and feathers, for a moment discomposed. ‘Why, ’tis you, madame! Who would have thought …?’ But she collected herself. ‘Well, well—so you and your husband meet again!’

  ‘Oh, is that who it is?’ said Sapphire, apparently for the first time raising her eyes to the gentleman who sat so taut and motionless on the great chestnut horse. ‘Why, so it is!’ She gave him a cool little bow. ‘Good day, my lord; an unexpected pleasure. I had no idea you were in Town.’ She added, before he could do more than bow formally to herself and to his cousin Christine in the carriage beside her, ‘You have returned perhaps for a public discussion with her Grace of Witham, of myself and Nicholas?’

  He would have ridden off upon his bow, but he reined in his horse to say, resentfully, ‘I have not mentioned your name, madame—but to defend it.’

  She raised her dark eyebrows. ‘You waste your time, sir. You have been too long out of England to know what is and is not defensible. I am a law unto myself, the name of Sapphire Devigne need be no concern of yours.’

  ‘The name of Sophia Weyburn, however, is very much a concern of mine,’ he said, coldly. ‘I shall continue to defend it—within limits, madame—while you remain my wife.’

  ‘And her son, your heir?’ suggested the Duchess, spitefully.

  He said nothing. Across the tossing feathers and furs in the intervening carriage, Sapphire said deliberately, ‘What do you say to that, my lord—if you will “continue to defend me”?’

  ‘“Within limits”,’ quoted the Duchess. ‘The limits have been reached, you see, madame: very early.’

  Sapphire laughed. ‘For God’s sake, Sophia,’ said Christine, urgently whispering, ‘let us drive on and end this horrible scene.…’

  But two or three riders had joined the little group, a coach had drawn up and a couple of bucks jumped down to see what mischief the Wit was meddling with now, a gig unable to pass had perforce stopped and its occupants looked down, grinning, from a place in the gallery. The Frome coachman struggled in vain to release his team, looking back apologetically from his high seat. ‘Impossible to proceed, my lady: I have sent a man forward to try to clear the way.…’

  Sapphire said, still laughing: ‘Aye, her Grace has you on the hip, my lord, your defences are vulnerable indeed! The first thrust and they fall. I had best rely, as ever, upon myself.’

  He did not answer; he also was hemmed in by the curious and could not immediately force a way out. ‘And what reliance, madame, do you place upon yourself?’ said the Duchess, flirting her great fan, ogling her sycophants, inviting admiration for her boldness. ‘Will you defend the legitimacy of your son?’

  ‘Lady Weyburn will not reply t
o such a question,’ said Charles Weyburn angrily, shouting it out now over the heads of the gathering, curious crowd of fashionables, tittering about the two carriages, some pleased, some scandalized, all agog for gossip; and he called peremptorily to his cousin to order her carriage to drive on, to put an end to such a scene. She called back to him, helplessly, she was powerless, she was doing her best; and the Duchess, delighted, cried out in her strident voice that since neither would deny it, they must assume Lady Weyburn publicly acknowledged by herself and her husband to be—a whore.

  Lord Weyburn sat for a moment, graven to stone. A silence had fallen, upon the ugly word; and he dismounted again from his horse and in the silence went up to the carriage and stood by it, with one hand upon the painted door as he had before. ‘Madame, I take leave to tell you that I permit nobody in my presence to use such a word of Lady Weyburn.’

  ‘I? It is you who, by implication, use it of her, my lord.’ And she looked about her insolently, triumphantly. ‘For my part, I believe the lady to be honestly married and her child legitimate.’

  He bowed stiffly. He said grimly, ‘Whatever is your belief, madame, I must refuse now; once and for all, to discuss my family affairs.’

  ‘Then you are the only man in England who does not do so,’ said the Duchess. ‘And for want of discussing them, are in danger of throwing away your inheritance on the son of Lord knows who.… And if you reply,’ she said quickly, ‘that this is no business of mine, then I say that it is: of mine and of all of us here. For we represent your world, my lord; and why should your world be saddled with this brat of Anton of Brunswick?—or of some other, for all I know; of Greenewode, Pardo Ryan, Lord Franks, or any other of the profligates about Town—because, forsooth, you are too proud to “discuss your family affairs”! Though how in God’s name,’ screamed the Duchess, looking once more triumphantly about her, ‘they can be called your family affairs when the boy is not your son and the woman in all probability not your wife …’ And she rapped him with the great fan again and screeched out that the truth was that he was infatuated with the woman and wished the boy were his own—and that, indeed, for all they knew, so he well might be; but not legitimately so.

  The coachman had succeeded in freeing a passage for his horses; Christine, more whitefaced than ever, motioned him on. But Sapphire stayed him; and now she, herself, had lost colour, there was snow upon the ivory. The forward movement of the carriage had brought her more directly opposite the Duchess. Lord Weyburn stood only the width of the ducal equipage away from her; it was no longer necessary to raise her voice. She said: ‘One moment, Duchess. Of my son’s claims to the Starrbelow inheritance I say nothing, I never have said anything; but you have now twice in my presence suggested that I am not entitled to call myself Lord Weyburn’s wife.’ And she spoke across the high-coloured face with the bright malicious eyes and the beak of a nose, and said directly to Lord Weyburn, standing grim-faced and helpless on the other side of the carriage, ‘Do you deny my true marriage to you, my lord?’ She added, before he could answer, ‘Speak out now, if you please; since this enquiry has begun in public, it had better be concluded there,’ and brushed away Christine’s pleading hand tugging at her sleeve.

  Charles Weyburn waited quietly till she had finished. He said: ‘I have not questioned, now or ever, the legitimacy of my marriage to you. I neither know, nor care to know, what the Duchess refers to.’

  ‘I refer to a gentleman now dead,’ said the Duchess; ‘and by your lordship’s hand.’

  ‘Do you mean Prince Anton of Brunswick?’ said Sapphire, incredulous.

  ‘Who is known to have conducted a “mock marriage” at the Fleet with the lady whom Lord Weyburn so confidently refers to as his wife.’

  The last colour drained from her face, the faint traces of rouge stood out now like a clown’s paint under the startled flash of her eyes, no longer guarded by discreetly lowered lids. But Charles Weyburn had, in his turn, relaxed, shrugging contemptuously. ‘There was some escapade—at a time when for a season, I understand, Lady Weyburn was famous for her escapades.’

  ‘Shall we say, rather, was notorious?’

  He bowed. ‘Your Grace, I believe, speaks with some special feeling in the matter,’ and he watched with satisfaction while the slack muscles tautened round the unkind mouth, while angry recollection flooded her eyes: one of Sapphire’s ‘escapades’ had most nearly concerned the dignity of her Grace of Witham. ‘Come, madame—these events took place after my marriage, they in no way effect its legitimacy.’

  ‘Yet you later challenged Prince Anton to a duel—on grounds which he did not deny.’

  ‘These grounds, however, in no way concerned the escapades, nor, therefore, my marriage.’

  ‘Nor the legitimacy of your son?’

  He looked across at Sapphire. Very pale, very taut, she speechlessly bowed her head in some motion, understood without words between them, of consent. He said: ‘Lady Weyburn has never—in so many words, at any rate—claimed my name, let alone my inheritance, for her son.’ He added deliberately: ‘Nor do I acknowledge the boy. For the rest, I repeat, and you, your Grace, have just declared your own belief, that she is an honestly married woman.…’

  ‘Honestly married, oh, aye,’ said her Grace of Witham. ‘But to another man.’

  There was a man standing, gaping, with the rest of that small crowd of the lords and ladies: a heavy, flabby man with small porcine eyes in a large porcine face. The Duchess hailed him, over the nodding heads. ‘Hey, Sir Adam Bodkin, come forward, come over here!’ As he shoved his way forward to the carriage, she poked out her fan at him, detaining Lord Weyburn with a hand on his sleeve, to hear further what he would say. ‘Sir Adam—were you not Prince Anton’s second, when he fell, duelling with his lordship? Was it not you?’

  ‘I was, your Grace, yes; and was obliged,’ said Sir Adam, resentfully, ‘to leave London myself, for a twelvemonth. The fuss over from Hanover.…’

  ‘Yes, yes, we know all about that, and about your sufferings; we have had ample reminder in the past ten years. But—of the event itself, Sir Adam—now what was it,’ said the Duchess, craftily, ‘that the Prince gave into your keeping that day as he died?’

  Sir Adam looked sullenly down at his fat hands. ‘He gave me a ring, as I think your Grace well knows.’

  ‘I know it, yes; but does Lord Weyburn know it? Come, Sir Adam—a ring? A plain gold ring from his finger—what sort of a ring?’

  Sir Adam shrugged. ‘It looked like a wedding ring.’

  ‘It looked like a wedding ring. With an inscription inside, I believe—a date?’

  ‘March the twenty-fifth,’ said Sir Adam. ‘March the twenty-fifth, 1754.’

  ‘March the twenty-fifth,’ repeated her ladyship, gleefully. ‘Ladyday, 1754. Prince Anton, dying, left the ring and a message, Sir Adam, was it not so? And the message?’

  ‘Your ladyship knows the message, if it was a message. He gave me the ring, as he died; he kept muttering, “Ladyday! Ladyday!” as though it were a message with the ring.’

  ‘So.’ She looked round her, at the avid faces of her listeners, at the set white face bent over the clenched hand on her carriage door, at the ivory face with pink petals of rouge on an overlay of snow. She said, with malicious triumph: ‘So Prince Anton of Brunswick wears a wedding ring with the date, March the twenty-fifth, 1754. And in May of that year, “Lady Weyburn” goes through a ceremony of marriage with his lordship. And in July of that year, “Lady Weyburn” and Prince Anton are concerned in an “escapade” during which some pages are removed from the registry of a chapel in the Fleet. And in August of that year, Prince Anton, dying, leaves the wedding ring with its date inscribed and a message, a murmuring over and over of that date.… To whom, Sir Adam?’ He did not reply and she raised her voice: ‘To whom, Sir Adam, did he leave the message and the ring?’

  ‘To Lady Weyburn,’ said Sir Adam, still sulkily.

  Aloft on their perches, the coachmen sat in their magnif
icent trappings, all ears; the footmen at the horses’ heads craned their necks the better to hear and see the spittings and snarlings of their betters, saving up every scrap of gossip for retailment, richly embellished, in the servants’ halls; only the proud horses arched their glossy necks, indifferent to human spite and folly, and the little dogs whined in their mistresses’ muffs and scuffled, unheeded, for release. Charles Weyburn said, looking into a bleached white face, ‘Is this true?’

  ‘If it were,’ said Sapphire, speaking very stiffly, as though with pain, ‘it need not affect you, my lord. On March the twenty-fifth, 1754—on Ladyday—the Fleet marriages became illegal. So, anyway …’

  ‘From March the twenty-fifth, 1754,’ said the Duchess. ‘They were still legal on that day.’

  ‘Still legal?’ She looked at her, absolutely ashen, with trembling lips. ‘You mean that on Ladyday …? On that Lady-day …?’ Her voice faltered away, she put up her hand to her forehead, swaying as she sat. ‘Sophia,’ implored Christine, white-lipped also, at her side, ‘for God’s sake end this, for God’s sake let us come away.…’

  But the coachman now was conveniently deaf to half-whispered orders croaked out from a dry throat; and a cold voice said, insistently, ‘I ask you again, madame: is this true?’

  No veiled lids now: she stared back at him, oblivious of the intervening carriage, with great, blue, terror-filled eyes, that for a moment you might have thought were a young girl’s eyes, an inexperienced, young girl’s eyes, in simple trusting anguish, imploring him. ‘You don’t believe it? You don’t believe it, you can’t?…’

  ‘For the third and last time,’ he said, ‘I ask you—is it true?’

  His face was as cold as death and she moved her eyes from it, looking down, silent, for a long time at her hands, now lying quietly in her lap. But she raised her head at last and looked at him once again, quietly and steadfastly: and said, ‘No.’

  He looked up, startled. ‘You say that it is not true?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It is not true.’